


Tom Riddle's Grand Adventure

by SirHiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cthulhu Mythos, Demon Summoning, Gen, Rituals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8385259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirHiss/pseuds/SirHiss
Summary: During the summer of 1945, Tom Riddle is fired from his position at Borgin and Burkes. Desperate, Tom needs a new plan fast or he'll end up owing the Black Family more than he's willing to give. Single point of departure fic.





	1. Crooks and Curses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
> 
> Cross-posted on FFnet as Slithery. Edited on 10/30/2016.

 

July 19, 1945

_Borgin and Burkes, offering confidential valuation services for unusual and ancient wizarding artifacts since 1863._

At least, that's what the sign outside the window said. Inside the dimly-lit shop was a collection of strange curiosities.

Piles of scrolls and tablets looted from ancient civilizations were crammed into an antique cabinet. Next to that was a long, low table bearing bird skulls and delicate piles of bone. Racks of bottles, partly dissected and preserved porlocks, and mummified legs crowded the shelves.

In the corner, a covered cage rattled. It was inside there that snatches of warbling and the occasional screech could be heard. From the ceiling hung rusted hooks and saws. They clattered together, twisting and writhing on their chains. Each hungered to bite into flesh. Add that to the clinging smell of incense, candle wax, and the sour rank of natron, and it was no wonder Tom Riddle had a headache.

Tom leaned against the counter, elbows resting against the display case. He breathed out the stale air with an irritable huff.

A shrunken head leered up at him, and Tom blocked it from view with a piece of parchment.

Borgin and Burke weren't here today.

It was the only _good_ thing about today. With them gone, he was free to take out a book and read between customers.

He spent his morning reading about ritual sacrifices. Eventually, Tom lost his focus and put it down in favor of compulsively checking his pocket watch every few minutes.

The day couldn't go by any slower.

Next to the discarded book were several pages of parchment, filled with his detailed notes. The borders were covered in doodles, sketches of a particularly striking cursed necklace.

As the afternoon stretched on, it was getting harder to ignore the sour twisting in his gut. He hadn't taken a potion in four hours. His temples were throbbing, mouth dry, anxiety prickling across his skin like crawling spiders.

A shadow passed in front of the paned window, briefly casting the shop into darkness. A customer?

The door opened with a tinkle of bells.

Tom stood up straight, brushing the papers into the book and under the counter with a wordless spell. Time to look professional.

She was a woman, tall and overweight. The old floorboards groaned as she stepped further into the shop. Her face flowing into her neck, which bulged around a pearl necklace. A sleek fur collar was draped around her shoulders, and the swooping plunge of her neckline left far to little to the imagination.

Briefly glancing around the shop with narrowed eyes, she met Tom's gaze.

He kept the gaze, and spoke, "Hello, miss. Is there anything I can help you with?"

She smiled wide under her witch's hat, "yes, I'm looking for a conversation piece. Something I might put on display in my home, perhaps."

"Of course," Tom scrambled out from behind the counter, "right this way, miss."

It was intentional. She wasn't young, but that's what she wanted people to think. And flattering her might warm her up to a sale.

"This, here, is a cursed necklace, it's beautiful," he met her eyes, "but deadly. The curse shortens the chain, and the wearer will find they can't remove it until it's choked them to death."

She stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, before frowning in disapproval.

Tom, for his part, was trying _not_ to watch as one of the hooks hanging from the ceiling creaked ominously against its chain. It was _straining_ to slice at her, and almost nicked the top of her hat.

It was distracting, and a bit funny. But if he laughed, she'd no doubt think he was laughing at her, with her weight and choking pearl neckla—

_Fuck_ , that's why she was displeased.

She thought he was taking a subtle poke at her weight.

"What sort of area are you planning to display your purchase in?" he asked, for lack of a better thing to say.

"My parlor, on a stand or a table." She was fingering the pearl necklace straining around her neck.

"Then we don't want something someone might easily pick up, or anything with a lethal curse." Tom nodded.

"Oh," she smiled, "that's not a concern at all."

Ah, so she _wanted_ someone to pick it up and curse themselves. Either that, or she wanted him to think she planned on cursing someone. Why, he had no clue. It was patently idiotic to go about hinting how you were planning to murder someone. He walked a few steps to the back of the room, where the more dangerous objects were stored.

There was a tall box he paid extra mind to, skirting around it with some caution. Inside was a particularly jumped-up inferi, from ancient Babylon. About a month ago, the blasted thing smashed through its box, scaring the shite out of him.

The effect was destroyed all but a moment later, when the inferi tripped over its own grave-clothes and tumbled over, teeth clattering across the floor. It managed to knock over two displays, releasing a crate of bewitched scorpions. The thing then picked itself up, and started shuffling across the room before Tom managed to trap it in an incarcerus, and wrestle it back into its box.

It was now wrapped in three enchanted chains, and a strong stasis charm. If any one of those broke, the bloody thing would escape. Again. And the last thing Tom wanted was property damage and a terrified customer.

Leading the woman around the inferi's giant box, he stopped in front of a glass display which contained a glimmering bronze vase.

"This one's locked away, and for good reason," he nodded toward the vase in the case, "it's alluring." He took another glance back at her, smiling.

"Alluring?" She raised one brow, giving him a look like she knew exactly what he was trying to do, and found him embarrassing.

Tom dropped his head down, a bit abashed.

He thought back to that time he caught Walburga doing something entirely inappropriate in a broom closet, and felt a flush come over his cheeks and the tip of his ears. A blush from embarrassment and a blush from arousal were indistinguishable, in this context. If he _really_ felt embarrassed, he'd get angry. And anger wasn't the emotion he wanted to display, not to a _customer_.

Tom Riddle looked up at the woman, looking properly ashamed and a tad bashful, "alluring, yes," he cleared his throat, "once someone touches it, of course, their arms wither and— well, I've heard it's an excruciating death."

The pause worked perfectly, and instead of irritated or exasperated, she looked amused.

"An *excruciating death?"

Tom smiled, a bit shy, "yes, horrific, in a word."

"That's an awful coarse decoration, I think." her tone was sharp and scolding.

The smile dropped off Tom's face, and he quickly turned the flash of irritation into an expression of deep thought. His brows drew together and he glanced off into the corner of the room.

"I think I might have something you'd like." Tom said, softly, like he was mulling it through.

He didn't bother glancing back at her, trusting he had her intrigued. Two displays down was a silver chalice, delicately ornamented and completely deadly.

"The curse is subtle, but powerful," Tom said, glancing back at her with a smile, "anyone who touches it with a bare hand finds themselves _unlucky._ A sort of reverse-rabbit's foot, if you will. The effect accumulates with time, but the victims invariably find themselves tripping over their own feet and into a convenient fire."

"Oh my!" the older woman's eyes lit up with delight, "that _is_ lovely."

"It's one of a set," Tom lied, "the other was destroyed in the 1200s, sadly."

Nothing like a bit of old-fashioned false scarcity to speed up a sale.

"A shame," she said, pursing her lips, "a _set_ would be elegant."

"They would," Tom nodded, and then paused, "are you still interested, even if it's not part of a set?"

The woman leaned back, adjusting the fur on her collar. The fur and the thick cloak had to be an affectation, really. It was _August_ , hot and muggy out, which meant she was using cooling charms to keep comfortable. The animated fur, subtly shifting colors, and glittering embroidery on her clothes were all cues so other witches would think she was fabulously wealthy.

"I think I might be," the woman gave Tom a warm smile.

He wondered who she was planning to _subtly_ and _elegantly_ kill with that chalice.

Tom brushed his hand over the price tag, sending a jolt of will to _adjust_ the number upwards. His fingers curled around the tag, and he lifted it into her view.

She plucked it from his hand between two long fingernails.

"Five hundred and ninety-nine galleons." Her voice held almost no affect. "That's a tad much, isn't it?"

Tom bit his lip, "I could give you a bit of a discount, but—" he lowered his tone, "Borgin won't like it if I go any lower than five hundred."

"Five hundred?" she snorted, "a hundred galleons is the highest I'll go."

"That—" Tom gaped, "I'd never be able to— Borgin would _kill_ me. Five hundred, no lower."

"I might have to walk out on this one," she said, frowning.

Tom held his ground, "I can't go any lower than five hundred."

"Then I won't buy it," she said, before taking several steps to the door.

Tom didn't say anything to stop her.

She halted in place, "five-hundred it is."

Which lead him to his second favorite reason to enjoy Borgin and Burke being away.

The actual list price was 459 Galleons.

Borgin and Burke _expected_ customers to haggle, within reason. And Tom had been instructed to go no lower than 385 galleons.

It was the best of all worlds. The customer walked away thinking she'd haggled some poor shop boy down to the minimum price with no effort, and Tom pocketed the extra 115 galleons. It wasn't _often_ he could run this scheme, but when he did, the payoff was enormous.

Those 115 galleons were worth about eight months of rent.

Money exchanged hands, and Tom watched the the woman leave the shop, bells jingling as the door shut.

He exhaled the musty air, relaxing against the counter.

115 Galleons found their way into his pocket, while the other 385 were deposited neatly into the cash register. The price tag slowly bled back to the original 459, and everything was returned to its proper place.

At least, until it all went wrong.

Caractacus Burke was an old man, at least a hundred years old. His scraggly beard was speckled through with gray, and his skin bore the cast of a cadaver. Too much time spent in dark and windowless rooms, if Tom had to guess.

"I see you've been busy while I was away," Burke said.

And with those words the 115 galleons flew out of Tom's pocket and into Burke's outstretched hand.

Tom went so stiff he could've been propped like a broom against the wall.

"I tolerate no disobedience," said Burke, "no slacking on the job, no frivolity, no disrespecting customers, and no _thievery_."

Tom, past his brain's incoherent panic, stuttered out, "you have my deepest apolog—"

"I don't want your _apologies_ ," the man spat, sharp eyes narrowing, fingers tapping his wand like he might use it for a moment, before halting their motion.

Burke slowly began to pace the length of the store, keeping Tom in the corner of his eye.

"I've owned this store for eighty-two years. Eighty-two years, and not one single _shop boy_ ever dared defy me in this way. Not one, because they understood when I said there'd be _dire penalties_ for disobedience. But you? You _stupid boy_ , are incapable of even that."

"You have your money back," Tom's mouth was dry, throat closing in panic.

"You pathetic little—"

"Do you want to take me to the aurors, or work something out privately?" Tom asked, voice tight. His mind was whirring, and he didn't like his options. He saw that gleam in Burke's eyes, the way he kept clenching his wand in his hand.

Burke wanted a fight, he wanted vengeance on Tom, personal vengeance. But Tom didn't want a fight, here. He wasn't afraid of a battle, but there were other considerations he had to take into account. No, it was the fallout _after_ the fight that scared Tom.

If Burke killed him, there'd be no recourse under the law. Burke had nothing to fear, not when the Wizengamot presided over trials, and were composed of half of Burke's customers. That was assuming it'd even _make it_ to trial. Burke could simply have the records of the duel destroyed. With no evidence, there'd be no trial.

On the other hand, Tom Riddle the shop boy would be sent to Azkaban for the rest of his life if he managed to kill the pureblood Burke. He'd have to leave Britain, or go into hiding. Fuck, he'd thought Burke was _gone_ for the day. He wasn't supposed to be here.

"Bargains?" spat Burke, with a laugh, "you can't be serious."

Tom raised his hands, a visual sign of surrender. "I know some ancient lore, the locations of several objects that might be of value to you—"

"Liar."

"I offer you Ravenclaw's diadem." Tom said, ignoring him, "it's worth much more than a paltry hundred-fifteen galleons, more than anything I could've stolen in the entire time I've worked for you."

He didn't mean it.

Sure, Burke would get his hands on the diadem, but then a week later, Burke would _mysteriously_ die. There were many undetectable ways to kill a person, if Tom got sufficiently creative. And it was better to kill Burke on Tom's own terms, in a way that wouldn't be traceable back to him.

For now, Tom would let Burke get his petty revenge for the wrong Tom did to him.

"It grants the wearer wisdom beyond measure," Tom continued, "Helena Ravenclaw was jealous of her mother's brilliance. I learned this from the Grey Lady in Hogwarts. It would shock some to learn the Grey Lady _is_ Helena Ravenclaw, who stole the diadem from her mother upon her deathbed, and fled to—"

Burke's eyes narrowed, and he hissed a spell without any warning.

Tom saw it coming, and half a second before the spell hit he was ducking, but—

A second spell smacked into his shoulder, flipping him over the counter and hard onto the ground.

" _Defodio!_ " Burke spat, hissing out a fucking _gouging_ spell.

That one barely missed Tom as he scrambled out of the way. Fuck, that old geezer was actually trying to _kill him._

Tom crouched behind a table, listening as Burke slowly advanced. He supposed Burke was attempting to be intimidating.

Well, that deserved _special_ consideration. Burke wasn't going to settle for Tom owing him a debt. One didn't attack with explosive hexes, expecting their opponent to get out alive. Instead, Burke wanted Tom dead. That changed things.

Apparating away was impossible, not with anti-apparition jinxes covering every shop. It was a common protection against thieves. Likewise, his portkeys weren't an option, either. With all the expensive items in the shop, the windows, door, and floo were likely booby-trapped, as well.

Tom wouldn't be able to dispel any of those protections in time.

If Burke had planned to kill him _before_ Tom had started talking, no matter what Tom had said, then he would've triggered the defenses in advance, so Tom couldn't have run away.

In other words, Tom needed to fight his way out, or at least distract Burke long enough—

No.

This was a matter of life and death. There'd be no _Great Dark Wizard, Tom Riddle_ , if he fucked around right here. Too many things could go wrong, if Tom tried to draw out the fight long enough for the aurors to arrive.

Tom's original plan was to exploit the tension between the Ancient families who were battling Dumbledore's faction.

Burke was friends with some Noble and Ancient families. Those families were enemies of Dumbledore's faction, and Dumbledore would no doubt use a fight in Borgin and Burkes as an excuse to investigate what was sold there. Borgin and Burke would be too busy fighting Dumbledore to care about Tom Riddle, shop boy.

But as a general rule, it wouldn't be smart to provoke the Ancient and Noble Houses. It'd be hard enough in the first place to disable Burke _without_ injuring him badly. And then Burke would come back later with his allies, demanding revenge.

Worse, Dumbledore was suspicious of Tom _already._ This battle would _definitely_ come to Dumbledore's attention, and Dumbledore would _definitely_ use it as an excuse to have Tom tossed in Azkaban.

On that note, there was another, more costly, way to handle this. It was a last resort, but Tom could pay one of the Ancient and Noble families for help.

If Burke could pay someone to destroy Ministry records, then so could Tom. It might cost him all of his savings, but it was worth averting the fallout from this battle.

The Black family would know people who could erase all records of this day from the Ministry's little spy department. The records of which spells were cast where, and who was at which locations would be gone. So long as Tom didn't cast any illegal spells that'd set off an alarm, like _avadakedavra_ , he'd be free to kill Burke and arrange his death in such a fashion that Tom wouldn't be implicated.

"One last offer," Tom's voice took on a warning undertone, "a thousand galleons. I walk out of the shop and we never speak of this again."

That was a rather large sum of money, enough to buy three houses on the muggle side of the border.

" _Confrigo!_ " Burke spat in response.

Tom twisted out of the way, a fiery explosion singing his robes.

" _Expelliarmus_ _incarcerus_ _stupefy!_ " Tom fired jinx after jinx, but the old geezer was fast on his feet and sharp with his shields.

In response, Burke sent back a knee-reversing hex and a blood-boiling curse. Tom was losing the advantage, and he needed to think fast.

He snapped a spell back, _diffindo!_ And old Burke twisted out of the way.

But Tom hadn't been aiming at Burke.

The three chains binding the inferi's box snapped with a friendly _clink_ , and the blasted inferi burst from his confines, for the second and final time.

Burke caught it with a _confringo,_ exploding it messily into a dozen fiery pieces. The blazing head shot off like a bludger, cracking into the ceiling before bouncing to a halt in some dark corner of the shop. A yellowed fingernail stuck out of a hunk of gore, spattered across the window.

A shame. It was a well-made inferi. It even made realistic wailing noises when it charged you.

Burke spun back around, and Tom ducked, waving his wand to cast— _but Burke was faster._ He caught Tom in the chest with an _expulso_ while he was trying to get his footing.

The spell didn't _work_ , not like it should. The combination of two horcruxes, an amulet defending against battle magic, and a bracelet be-spelled to deflect spell damage did their job.

Instead of being blasted to smithereens, he was knocked backwards into the table of skulls and bones.

That was the _second_ time the old geezer tried to kill him in less than a minute! Right, well then.

The parts of him that weren't boiling in rage at the fool who _dared_ try to kill him, were coolly noting that Burke was a competent dueler, with fast reflexes. Another part was deciding he was going to kill Burke in an _excruciating_ manner. No simple _avadakedavra_ for him, no, he was _earning_ his torture.

Burke moved fast, " _Oppugno!_ " giving Tom no time to react.

The bones and skulls which he'd been lying in, half-stunned in the mangled remains of the table, were suddenly animated. They gathered themselves mid-air, sharpening to fine points and hurling themselves at his head.

Tom cast a vanishing charm while rolling out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough. One caught him in his side, and another lodged itself in his shoulder. He wheezed, stumbling in pain, to crouch behind the remains of the counter. Taking a sharp breath, he shouted _engorgio!_

_Engorgio,_ straight at the bloody attack-saws and hooks dangling from the ceiling, which were all but _starved_ of blood.

With a groan, 40-some animated saws, hooks, and strangling-chains swelled in size until they were almost scraping the wooden floor. They swung wildly on their chains, smashing through displays and gouging cabinets.

Wood sprayed, glass shattered, and thousands of galleons in rare and precious artifacts struck the ground as the attack-saws shred them to pieces.

Satisfying, if he could say-so himself.

Tom threw himself sideways, out of the reach of a particularly ambitious attack-saw, and was almost struck by the stinger of a giant _bloody_ scorpion.

In between vanishing the attack-saws, Burke managed to engorge the dozen or so bewitched scorpions, and set them upon Tom. The thing's tail was larger than a winged-back chair, and half of them were currently tangled in the remaining attack-saws. But a few managed to get across the room and at Tom.

All of this gave Burke enough time to vanish the rest of the attack-saws, hooks, and chains, and fire off a few decidedly unfriendly spells at Tom, while he was distracted by the _bloody_ scorpions.

It was bad. His range of mobility was limited thanks to the bruising on his one shoulder, and now a bone was lodged in his _other_ shoulder. That wasn't even mentioning the bone sticking out of his side. He was decidedly _not thinking_ about the sort of internal bleeding he was going to have to heal, after this.

Thank _fuck_ he had horcruxes.

Scrambling back through the debris, Tom spotted two more scorpions skittering toward him and cursed. Fuck it. He banished a shard of glass straight through the scorpion's mandibles. The other skidded out of the way, and Tom banished an entire cabinet straight into its midsection.

" _Bombarda!_ " Burke shouted, firing a blasting curse straight at Tom. He dove out of the way of the curse and whipped up the glass shards into a rough swarm of cutting blades.

It was a crude spell, cast wandlessly, but it'd be a shame not to use all the debris Burke carelessly left lying about.

The glass shot toward Burke, and he countered with a clever shield and counter-hex.

But Burke was slipping. He hadn't even noticed the guts of the partly dissected portlock hovering behind his head. The glass shards were serving as the perfect distraction. With a squelch that set even Tom's stomach turning, the intestines of the portlock wound themselves around Burke's neck and _squeezed._

Burke's eyes bulged, hands immediately grasping the rings of intestine wrapped around his throat, all magic forgotten in the face of sheer, animal panic.

And that was all it took.

Tom banished another two glass shards at Burke. The first was long and narrow, jamming itself through the man's eye socket and into his skull. The second slipped through the space between his sixth and seventh ribs, piercing the heart.

Burke went limp, and the portlock's intestines ceased being held up by Tom's magic. The corpse toppled over and hit the floor with a loud thud.

"You should've taken my offer, Mr. Burke." He said to the corpse, lips curved upward in amusement.

* * *

The general gist behind dueling was to evade your opponent's defenses, while trying to make it as difficult as possible for them to hit you. This was complicated by several factors, only one of which was relevant at the moment.

Witches and wizards wore enchanted robes, amulets, rings, hats, and doubtless other trinkets with the intention of defending themselves. Everyone who could afford them wore them, and it was an ongoing arms-race in Wizarding Britain, where you couldn't find a single witch or wizard who wasn't weighted down by a glittering array of protective-whatsits claiming to do everything from automatically clean their clothes, to defending against almost any spell.

Most of these charmed trinkets were expensive, short-lived, and rarely followed through on their promises.

Regardless, Tom had expected Burke to go down harder. There were enchanted rings that could make objects moving quickly at you _swerve_ out of the way, last moment. Some robes stiffened upon contact with banished objects, hardening like armor.

All of these were _expensive_ , but Burke was surrounded by ancient dark artifacts, most of which were extremely expensive. He could afford it.

Yet, a common banished piece of glass pierced his skull and killed him. It was _odd._

Burke must've gotten arrogant in his old age. Either that, or something else was afoot.

Tom glanced around the room now, slightly anxious.

He cast several spells to detect disillusionment, and another to detect the use of an invisibility cloak.

Nothing.

With that, Tom summoned his bag from underneath the ruins of the counter, and dug around in it.

A poor muggleborn, even one with supposed ties to Slytherin himself, was not well-liked in his House. It took _years_ to gain their respect, and by the time he had, he'd developed a number of useful habits. One of those was always carrying on him whatever he could conceivably need.

He'd enchanted his bag with an undetectable expansion charm in his fifth year, and it boasted dittany, skele-gro, wound-cleaning paste, burn-healing paste, various antidotes, and a bezoar.

This time, he withdrew a sneakascope and a small foe glass.

Beyond the typical _you are in a room filled with dark objects_ alert, nothing.

Tom then cast a couple cautious spells on the corpse, to detect if Burke was under any potions or spells that altered his appearance.

None.

Alright, then the Burke Tom fought _wasn't_ a polyjuiced imposter under the imperius curse. Good to know.

Tom pointed at the door, murmuring a charm to make the sign read _closed._ Just in case the spells failed with Burke's death, Tom cast a locking charm on the door. Then, he cast another charm to alert him if anyone else appeared in the store.

Once it was tripped, it'd set off a shrill alarm. He never used it before now, largely because he hadn't wanted Borgin or Burke asking why he needed to be alerted to their presence. They would've wanted to know what he was hiding from them.

Namely, the theft of hundreds of galleons.

With that, Tom staggered across the room to slump down against the wall with a groan. His hand was pressed tightly at his side, to keep the piece of bone from moving.

He summoned his healing supplies out of his bag with a wave of his hand.

Tom braced himself before pulling out the bone. A spurt of blood trickled down his side.

Three charms, wound-cleaning paste, and a dab of dittany took care of the puncture wound in his side. It'd gone deep and speared his colon. It'd _barely_ missed his kidney. The wound was now stuffed with wound-cleaning paste to prevent sepsis, and the dittany was closing it right up. The damage to his colon was repaired with a couple delicate charms.

The shoulder with the bone sticking out of it only needed an episkey, and the bruise on his other shoulder could wait. Likewise, the cuts from the wood when he'd shot out of the shop only required some cleansing and dittany.

The real concern was his chest. That spell should've shattered his bones into a hundred little pieces. Instead, it ached every time he took in a sharp breath. It didn't _feel_ like a fracture, but the adrenaline was still rushing through his system, dulling pain.

If there _were_ fractures, an episkey followed by a drop of skele-gro should do the trick. Skele-gro was expensive, though. He didn't want to _waste_ any of it, but— but it'd be worse to go around with fractured ribs.

He took his medicine and sat there for a moment, pain fading as the magic knitted his wounds. He'd be fine, physically. Now for the _real_ trouble.

It was time to call Walburga Black.

* * *

edited: 10/30/2016


	2. Blood and Bargains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the ending of chapter one. Re-read for this chapter to make sense. Enjoy!

Walburga Black, when Tom was in his fourth year, bade him to steal an enchanted comb from a first year for a few sickles. Being a poor orphan with not a single sickle to his name, Tom had eagerly accepted her offer. Later, when she blackmailed him into performing certain dark rituals with her, on pain of telling the first year just who'd stolen that comb, Tom learned an important lesson:

Don't make deals with Walburga Black.

The comb, as it turned out, was an ancient and powerful artifact entrusted to that first year as Heir to an Ancient and Noble family.

Tom was not amused by her trickery, and sought his revenge in an appropriately ironic manner.

Namely, he sold illegal potions to her cousin, Orion, in a way that made it look like a favor to the boy. Then, he bade the boy do something dangerous, on threat of telling the professors that Orion Black was cheating. He now held the knowledge of _that_ deed as blackmail over the boy's head, should Tom ever need it.

It should be unnecessary to say that not one student at Hogwarts knew it was _Tom Riddle_ who was selling them their illegal potions. In fact, most of the time it _wasn't_ Tom Riddle who was selling them their potions. Henry Burke had secretly brewed the potions and sold them, using letters written with a quick-notes quill, disillusionment charms, and the judicious use of _obliviate_ to make the brewer of those potions unknowable.

Unfortunately for Henry, Tom had been bound and determined to learn the identity of the brewer, and was quite talented at mind magics.

He'd used legilimancy on a fifth-year muggleborn boy who was _desperate_ to pass his OWLs, even if he had to use memory charms to do it. The Ravenclaw boy never _told_ anyone he intended to buy memory potions. It had been a guess. Tom had simply gone around legilimizing anyone who wouldn't know occlumency, and seemed insecure enough to want magical aid in passing their exams.

He then legilimized the boy every day until one day when the boy had received a mysterious note asking him to meet in a certain secret passageway after dinner. And Tom followed him, using a patchy invisibility cloak pilfered from the Room of Hidden Things, and a strong disillusionment charm.

Hidden, Tom watched as a disillusioned figure handed over three vials, receiving a handful of galleons in return from the Ravenclaw boy. The figure then obliviated the boy, leaving him standing in the passageway slightly dazed, potions in-hand.

Which explained how the subscribers of that service had no idea _how_ they got their potions, only that they did, and that they bought them from The Brewmaker.

Tom followed the disillusioned figure, barely more than a subtle disturbance in the air, all the way to the Slytherin common room. It had been _difficult_ , but Henry Burke wasn't particularly good at disillusionment charms.

After that, Tom used Burke's method to steal some of his clients, and found new clients using _The Brewmaker's_ reputation as a trustworthy seller of illegal potions, to sell his own.

It brought Tom some small amusement, that he'd been stealing from the Burkes before he'd ever even started working for them.

At any rate, he informed Walburga that he bought information off of The Brewmaker, who told him that her cousin was buying and using wit-sharpening potions. It cost him a couple clients, once word got around, but was worth it to have something over Walburga.

(It was also worth noting that destroying _The Brewmaker's_ reputation allowed for a _new_ seller to appear, who used similar methods and provided equally high quality potions to Burke's clientele. Three guesses who filled _that_ power vacuum.)

Walburga was enraged, but Tom put forth the idea that since _both_ of them now had blackmail material on the other, wasn't it wiser to simply work together as allies instead? Walburga replied that she'd never work with a mudblood, and Tom pointed out that he wasn't _really_ a muggleborn, since everyone knew he was the Heir of Slytherin.

Who else could speak to snakes, but the Heir of Slytherin?

That had appeased her, but only just.

What followed was one of the most productive alliances he'd ever maintained in Slytherin. Walburga knew a great deal of ancient lore, thanks to her family. While not nearly as talented in the dark arts as her Aunt Cassiopeia, she made up for it in cunning and raw power. The last two weeks of the summer of fifth year was spent at Grimmauld Place, eating dinners with the Black family and learning the dark arts alongside Walburga.

They desperately wanted him to take a vow.

The Blacks wanted a Vow of Allegiance. Walburga and her family would swear to protect he and his, in return for Tom's service. Or to put it bluntly, Tom and all his heirs _and their heirs_ would serve the whims of the Black family, for the rest of eternity.

Obviously, that wasn't an option.

But it was, historically, what clever half bloods and muggleborns did, when they wanted a leg-up in the Wizarding world. All the old families had _multiple_ other families, sworn into their service. It was old and powerful magic, binding one's soul to a family, and the practice of doing so outdated the Vikings invading Britain.

In other words, it was expected that Tom would eventually be worn down, and swear himself to one of the old families. And then one of those families would get him a cushy job in the Ministry, or an apprenticeship with a talented Master of the Dark Arts. From there, he'd serve their wishes, hexing who they wished him to hex, and writing in the laws they wanted him to write.

It wasn't any kind of _real_ power. It was only the illusion of power.

Worse, while they were bade to protect him, that protection only extended so far. It wasn't _uncommon_ for a servant of an old family to end up in Azkaban, taking the fall for some crime their master committed.

Tom wanted no parts of it.

Yet, his and Walburga's whole relationship was based on the false pretense that Tom would eventually take a vow, agreeing to be her servant. It was _bound_ to end badly, he knew.

* * *

It took Tom twenty minutes to break the spell that locked down the floo. Five minutes past that, Walburga Black was stepping through fire, looking quite cross.

Walburga Black took in the shop. Shattered glass, wood, and bits of twisted metal were scattered across the floor. Amid the rubble were the corpses of several giant scorpions, one of which was speared through with a sharp shard of glass.

Burn marks covered the walls, and in the middle of the floor was the corpse of Caractus Burke, with the intestines of a portlock still half-wrapped around his neck.

"Tom Riddle," Walburga's voice was low and stern, "just what did you _do?_ "

"He accused me of theft," Tom said, mildly, lips curved upward with some amusement, "something I'd _never_ do, of course, and proceeded to try to kill me. I can only assume he was going mad in his old age."

Walburga gave him a _look,_ because she _did_ know him. "I see."

A faint smile twitched on Tom's lips, "that you do, I'm sure."

Well, she _had_ to destroy the records now, since the maps in the Ministry's Not-So-Secret Spy Department now had a record of her being at the scene of the crime. All it took was Tom asking her to meet him _right away_ at Borgin and Burkes.

"You can't do this again." Walburga crossed her arms over her chest, "the next time you do I'll kill you, I mean it."

Tom nodded, still smiling, "there's a reward for your generosity, and for the trouble I'm putting you through."

"There is?" Walburga raised a brow, tone doubtful.

"Look around you. What do you see?"

"A body covered in the sphincter-drippings of the intestines of a— I'm not even sure I _want_ to know what that is. And a lot of ruined merchandise."

"A portlock."

"I said I didn't want to know."

"And not _everything_ is ruined. Look here." Tom pointed to the cabinets which were still standing, "I say we take the lot, blow the place up, and leave Borgin to think this was some sort of robbery gone wrong."

"And where were you when this 'robbery' occurred?" She used air-quotes around the word robbery.

"I fought them valiantly, but was knocked out and buried under the rubble." Tom shrugged, "with the records gone we can make up whatever story we like."

It was an amusing fact that Borgin was significantly less well-liked than Burke, and most people weren't fond of either of them.

They were tolerated, and only because they knew who owned what ancient and illegal artifacts.

"If you want me to destroy those records, you'll have to give my family a vow." said Walburga, frowning.

Tom sighed, he'd expected this. "I'm willing to pay you. It'd be your own money, not money obtained from your family's vault, controlled by your parents."

He knew that mattered to her. The Black family kept tight reigns on their heirs.

"A vow, Tom. You're out of Hogwarts. There aren't any more excuses to give."

Tom tapped his wand to his lips, thinking. "three-hundred galleons, and a favor."

Naturally, that favor couldn't be 'accept the vow.' He and Walburga had worked out long ago what constituted as a proper favor.

"No, I mean it this time. A vow."

Tom let out a small sigh, "I'll raise the offer to four-hundred galleons, half of what remains of Borgin and Burkes stock, and two favors. If you're hoping that pushing me harder will get you lore or secrets I've hoarded, don't." his tone went hard on the last word.

It wasn't so much a warning as a reminder. Walburga knew him, and had a fair idea what he was capable of.

"If I ask for a vow once more, what'll you say?" asked Walburga, who sounded idly curious.

Tom smiled without any humor, eyes hard, "that there are other methods to discern who everyone pays to destroy records in the Ministry of Magic. And that I'm not limited to asking only you."

"Asking would take time, and I can tip off the aurors."

"I _really_ wouldn't, if I were you." said Tom, staring Walburga straight in the eyes. His wand had never left his hand.

She looked away first, "six-hundred galleons and half of the loot, along with _three_ favors."

The favors, she would know, were worth more than the galleons and the loot, combined.

Tom paused, thinking for a moment. That was _a lot_ of money, more than half of the money he'd put away, over the course of three years of saving.

Yet, it was getting off lightly, compared to the risk of asking other people for help.

Tom inclined his head, "Walburga, I believe we have a deal. Now, shall we get started?"

* * *

Walburga stood in the middle of Knockturn Alley, leaning against a storefront with a good view of Borgin and Burkes.

The street was crowded, framed by crooked buildings on both sides. The shops leaned forwards, casting the alley into an unnatural darkness. Witches and wizards in brightly colored robes and pointy hats scurried down the lane. A few wizards opened their windows, craning there necks to see what was causing the racket.

_Apparently_ someone had blown up Borgin and Burkes, and the residents were going to have a look-see. No one could resist a good train-wreck.

A giant plume of smoke was rising over the skyline, and the crack of aurors apparating on-site was almost swallowed by the din of witches and wizards shouting over one another.

The records were already destroyed.

Her contact in the Ministry didn't know who requested it, but they were paid enough galleons to know not to ask.

More importantly, she now had three favors from Tom Riddle, who was known to be both clever and cunning. That, 600 Galleons from Riddle himself, 250 galleons from the cash register, _and_ a pile of loot she'd yet to sort through made up her haul from this venture.

But she meant it. Next time, she was getting a vow from that Tom Riddle. He was too good _not_ to have under her family's power.

Merlin help them if the Rosiers, or some _other_ family got him to take their vow.

It was the same with all clever half bloods and semi-competent mudbloods. Eventually, they'd hit a ceiling on how far they could rise in society, without the aid of an Ancient and Noble house. And when they did, they had two options: attempt to fight the system, or take a vow.

The latter got some power, while the former met their end at wandpoint.

There was nothing else to it. Tom Riddle was going to work for the Black family, or he was going to die.

* * *

Tom woke up in St. Mungoes, confused.

"Mr. Riddle," spoke a man in red auror robes, frowning at him sternly, "are you Tom Marvolo Riddle?"

"Yes," Tom croaked, silently cursing Walburga for doing _too good_ a job, blowing up the shop with him in it.

Two aurors were crowded in the hospital room. One held a scroll and an enchanted quill which was, no doubt, copying down every word said. The other auror was seated by Tom's bed, wand in hand.

Tom pulled himself up to sitting position, leaning against the headboard. He did a decent job of looking confused and disoriented.

"You're in St. Mungoes. Do you remember what happened?"

"I—" Tom cleared his throat, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "there were wizards— they broke in— _Mr. Burke!_ God, is he alright? I saw—"

"Mr. Burke is dead. Wizards broke into the shop, you say?"

"God, _Merlin,_ he's dead?" Tom looked stricken, "is Mr. Borgin alright? Did you catch who's done it?"

"Mr. Borgin is fine. And we need your help to determine who's done it. Now, would you consent to questioning under veritaserum?"

"Of course," said Tom, then more cautiously, as though the thought had just crossed his mind, "only about today though?"

Everyone had something to hide from veritaserum. Acting as though he had _absolutely_ nothing to hide only made him look _more_ suspicious.

Tom, however, was quite talented at mind magics. Occlumency made him immune to the effects of veritaserum.

"I can't agree to that, but I'll note that refusing veritaserum counts as a class-two failure to comply with Ministry directives, and earns a week-long stay in Azkaban for your trouble."

Tom cringed, "I'll comply."

Two drops were placed on his tongue, and the auror began his questioning.

"Did you kill Mr. Burke?"

"No."

"Do you know who killed Mr. Burke?"

"No, they were wearing masks."

"Did you steal from Mr. Burke, or see who did?"

"No."

This was followed by a series of tedious questions, before the auror got around to perfunctorially asking Tom about other illegal activities.

"Have you committed any crimes since you came of age?"

"Yes."

"Tell me what crimes you've committed."

_I killed Burke and looted his shop._

"I bought and used off-brand floo powder," Tom's voice faltered, like he was struggling with the compulsion to tell the truth, "and copied several passages from a textbook in Hogwarts library."

These were minor crimes, the sort that resulted in fines, not Azkaban. Witches and wizards were _only_ supposed to use proper floo-powder. The company that made it had a legal monopoly. And copying passages from books violated several copyrights.

"Did you do either of these things for personal use, or to sell them?"

"For personal use."

"What was the title of the book you copied from?"

Tom wracked his brain for a suitably harmless book, "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them."

The auror nodded to his partner, then gave Tom the antidote.

"You'll be written up for a 40 galleon fine. We'll check in with you later, to confirm that you've destroyed the copy, and will be contacting the author, if they're interested in taking legal action. Thank you for your cooperation."

At that, the aurors left before Tom could say another word.

He was, in a word, outraged.

Today had been _expensive._

At Borgin and Burkes, he made a paltry 12 Galleons per month. It sounded like a lot, until you considered just how expensive everything was in the Wizarding world.

A nice apartment in wizarding Britain cost 28 Galleons per month. The worst, seediest apartment _still_ cost a walloping 14 Galleons per month.

He'd considered moving to muggle Britain, where he could get an apartment for 6 galleons less, but the war wasn't _quite_ over yet. Wizarding villages, though not _completely_ protected from the muggle bombs, were far safer than muggle buildings.

The war was over against Germany, but not Japan.

Which led him to his other expenses:

He was _already_ digging into his savings, just to live in wizarding Britain. He wasn't about to throw away more galleons to say he was eating food prepared by wizards, not when he could get it cheaper across the border. A month of food in the muggle world cost one pound six shillings. In the Wizarding world, it was more expensive, costing six galleons and 16 sickles. With twenty shillings to one pound, it made far more sense to buy his food in muggle London, and save himself the galleons.

He figured it was fine if he went out during the day, since bombings generally happened in the cover of night.

The other reason for not moving out to the countryside and apparating in, one he couldn't quite voice, not even in the privacy of his own mind, was personal.

It was spite. Albus Dumbledore chased away all his job prospects. The wrong words in the right ears was all it took for the Defeater of Grindelwald to sour his name.

Tom would be damned before he let Albus _bloody_ Dumbledore chase him out of Wizarding Britain, too.

He wouldn't be in trouble for awhile, Tom reminded himself. He had savings, he wasn't _destitute._

Three years of brewing and selling potions to students across Hogwarts made him money, and a lot of it. That wasn't even _mentioning_ the items he collected from the Room of Hidden Things and sold, nor his venture into the British Black Market, last summer. Yesterday, he had 907 Galleons in his bag, and change. In Wizarding Britain, that was enough to buy 51% of a house, or about twelve years salary as a shop boy.

Yes, really.

In looting Borgin and Burkes, he gained an additional 365 galleons, plus a number of scrolls, books, and a few cursed objects. He didn't mind selling the cursed objects, but refused to sell the books.

Except then he had to hand over 600 of his galleons to Walburga, and another 40 to the Ministry of Magic. (It was highly unlikely that Scamander would bother to sue him. Copying passages from books was one of those things _everyone_ did, and no one expected a poor shop boy to have anything worth any value. It simply wasn't worth his time.)

Worse, Tom didn't have _any_ income, now.

He'd be living _entirely_ on his savings, which was counterproductive. You see, Tom had a _plan._ He was going to _save_ his money, and use it to pay for an apprenticeship to a powerful Master of the Dark Arts.

Tom needed a lot more money than the remaining 672 Galleons if he was going to pay for an apprenticeship on his own. A full mastery was worth _11,400-some galleons_ , depending on the Master in question.

He could've gone to the Blacks, even the Rosiers, asked them to sponsor him. But Tom knew they'd demand a vow from him. He and his heirs would be bound to serve their family, just like the Goyles were to the Malfoys.

Tom Riddle refused to be anyone's dog.

He'd thought, before Dumbledore beat Grindelwald, that he could get a job in the Ministry for a few years, save up. His starting salary would've made twice what he was making now— or rather _had been_ making, because he was likely fired.

It would've taken _years_ , but he had a lot of those.

The horcruxes granted him that.

With a decent job and a number of side projects, Tom figured he could make the money in just under five.

That was _counting_ ideas like _steal cocaine from surgeries across Britain, and then sell the drugs on the black market, later._

There was only so far he could go, before attracting attention to himself. For any plan to work long-term, he had to be cautious.

Which of course brought his thoughts back to Burke, and to his _big mistake._

What was it, that tipped Burke off? How could he prevent a similar situation from occurring in the future?

He couldn't lose this much money again, not in one go. He simply couldn't afford it. So that meant Tom needed to sort out exactly what he'd done wrong, and how to avoid ever getting caught again.

* * *

The next day, Tom was discharged with a bill of 82 Galleons and 3 sickles. In his head, he cursed up a blue streak while handing over the galleons through gritted teeth.

* * *

Muggle London was a hive of chaos.

People were returning from the countryside, and that meant crowded streets and even longer queues. The war might be over, but rationing was still in effect across Great Britain, and that meant longer lines at the canteens.

He'd transfigured his robes into a suit jacket and his wizard's hat into a cap. Tom never got out of the habit of wearing a proper shirt and trousers. That and a mild cooling charm kept him comfortable while he waited in line.

They were called "British Restaurants," but they were hardly restaurants in the traditional sense. Churchill got the bright idea, sometime in 1941, to start them all across Britain. Between rationing and the limited supply of imported goods, Britain needed to do _something._ Places of work were forced to serve lunch to the workers, and for people who didn't have a job that offered lunch, the "British Restaurants" were opened.

Hitler's strategy to starve the British failed, but only barely.

Tom had used up his rations for the week, but British Restaurants didn't use any. He typically went there during mealtimes to get lunch, once he'd run out of food. The rations lasted him maybe five days, depending on his luck and what was in stock at the shops.

It was a hassle, but far cheaper than eating in Wizarding Britain.

And sure, he _could_ steal from muggles. _Accio 40,000 pounds_ inside a bank. Except for the part where muggle population centers had one great homunculus charm over them.

Any large theft of muggle currency landed on the Auror Department's desk. And then they'd investigate, checking the guards' minds for memory charms and false-memory charms.

Once they confirmed the perpetrator was magical, all they had to do was cross-check their map. They'd see who was in that location at the time of the heist.

He was pretty sure that even _visiting_ a muggle bank frequently tripped some sensor and ended in veritaserum being forced down his throat.

Wizard thieves and Aurors had been playing cat-and-mouse for 200 years before Tom arrived on the scene. The most obvious solution, in this case, wasn't the answer.

Which meant Tom had to stand in a queue, waiting for his lunch. He'd taken out a book from his bag, disguised as a simple muggle history text, and began reading.

Not even five minutes later, his peaceful perusal of the old text describing several Sumerian curses was interrupted.

He was not pleased.

Willie Barnes was twelve years old, and grew up in Wool's Orphanage, much like Tom. Unlike Tom, Willie wasn't a wizard, and was almost useless.

He said _almost_ , because Willie could be bribed, with a couple pence, to find out the sort of information little orphan boys can overhear, in muggle London.

Tom turned around to the man behind him, and gestured at Willie. "My little brother's got an emergency. Could you hold my spot in line? It'll only be a couple minutes, thanks."

He said this with a sort of urgency, like Willie's presence invoked some kind of terrible news. Willie knew well enough to play along, and had taken off his cap, twisting it anxiously between his hands.

The boy was short, with big blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair. He was wearing shorts with no shoes. Few poor kids could afford shoes these days, and Willie was no exception. Tom approved. Willie was doing an excellent job of looking pathetic, which was a look only a child could pull off without being irritating.

Tom, himself, hadn't been able to pull off _pathetic orphan boy_ since he was around fourteen; too tall for it.

The grizzly man, with a beard and pock-marked face, scowled down at them, "Five minutes and not a minute more."

"Understood." said Tom.

With that, the two slipped off to an alleyway where they were less likely to be overheard.

"Five minutes," said Tom, "it'd better be good."

"There's a man, one of our neighbors, he's been asking around without asking, like you said to listen for. And he wants to buy coal rations, and I remembered you said you were selling yours."

Tom was, because wizarding apartments didn't need coal to keep them warm. Leaning against the brick wall, face cast in shadow, Tom asked Willie the most vital question of all:

"And what are you getting out of this deal, Willie?"

The boy twisted his cap, anxious, "the man said if I got him a deal, he'd give me thr'p'nce."

Tom smiled, feeling slightly fond, "good," and then, "can you guess what I'm going to say now?"

"But it's _my_ deal!" the kid argued, indignant.

"Which you'd never have unless you knew me."

"But—!" the kid argued, but a single raised eyebrow from Tom stopped him mid-sentence.

"A half-penny?" pleaded the boy.

"Are you asking me?"

"I'll give you a half-penny, and no more!" the kid demanded, stomping his foot sternly.

Tom had to stop himself from laughing outright. "You strike a hard bargain," he said instead, using a solemn tone of voice.

Willie beamed.

"Though, you'd best tell your man I'm _trading_ for the rations, not giving them away."

"Eggs, meat, and bacon. I remember!" chirped the boy.

"Good job." said Tom, glancing at his watch.

But the boy wasn't scampering off to give his man the good news. Instead, he was standing before Tom, anxiously twisting his cap and staring at him with wide blue eyes. He shifted from foot to foot, like he desperately had to use the loo.

"What is it?" Tom asked, humoring the boy. He couldn't spend six summers huddled in a bomb shelter with the boy, without developing some amount of fondness for him.

No, that was a lie.

But once he'd realized he'd be leaving Hogwarts with no job, no prospects, and _the most powerful wizard since Merlin_ on his arse, he decided it was time to mend bridges. So Tom struck deals with the orphans he hadn't managed to traumatize, especially the young ones who were easily trainable and likely to go unnoticed by adults.

"I know a thing you want to know." the kid spoke, words weighed out like he'd spent time thinking up exactly what to say.

Tom raised a brow, "you do?"

"I heard a thing, and I can't tell you what it is without telling you, but if I tell you, you have to pay me."

Tom untangled that bit of logic, and rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation. "If this is a joke, I'll be _very_ cross with you." He said that in his best Head-Boy-of-Hogwarts voice, honed from several years of taking points off of indignant Gryffindors.

Willie squeaked, but soldiered on. "It isn't I swear!"

Tom reached into his pocket, "how much?"

"A half-penny," the boy said, defiantly.

Tom let out a snort of laughter. He was going to have to work on this boy's business sense. He wouldn't get anywhere in life with _that_ little ambition.

"Alright, what is it?" Tom asked, handing the boy a half-penny.

"No one's said a word, not one, I promise. 'xcept, some officers came 'round Wool's the other day, asking about you. Cole said you'd gone and vanished, and the older kids said nothin'. And I thought, it _had_ to be bad if Cole was lyin', because we'd all seen you just last week, and Cole's mighty cross with you. They said they were coming back again, and that if anyone saw you, we have to tell them."

Tom's eyebrows rose further and further up as Willie went on. "You _seriously_ undervalued your information," he said, voice soft and barely audible.

Tom rewarded the boy's loyalty with another threepence, and Willie's eyes went round with shock.

"You'll have another three if the next time they come around, you're by the door listening to their conversation with Mrs. Cole."

Willie nodded his head rapidly, grinning, then turned on his foot and ran out the alley, "thank you, Mr. Riddle!"

Tom waved, and walked back to his place in line, thinking. A quick shove of legilimancy with his mind made the grizzly muggle man _agree_ to let Tom back in his place in line.

Once again, standing under the bright sun, Tom thought.

Trading rations was illegal, as was buying black-market meat and selling clothing points. That was all it could possibly be. He'd sold black-market bourbon under an alias, with his face disguised under several charms. No one would be looking for _Tom Riddle_ , the black-market bourbon-seller.

Myrtle Warren's death was a wizarding crime, and no-one knew he'd done it, even if Dumbledore suspected. The Riddles were his uncles doing, according to the aurors. Muggles would think— well, who knows what they'd think, some sort of undetectable poison in their supper, or some other rot. But no one knew _Tom_ visited them, the night of their murder.

Which meant the only thing a muggle officer would want him for was trading and selling rations. Fuck, should he even _meet_ with that man? It could be a trap.

Tom glanced around, but Willie was already long gone.

If Tom received this news yesterday, he would've simply concentrated his efforts in skimming off the top of Borgin and Burkes. He would've ceased all operations as _Tom Riddle_ in muggle London, immediately.

But he wasn't sure he had that luxury, anymore.

* * *


End file.
